


The Past? What Past?

by PlateOfChickenAlfredo



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, I'm new so I don't know what to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlateOfChickenAlfredo/pseuds/PlateOfChickenAlfredo
Summary: An Exo Guardian wallows in the memories of his former life during the years following humanity's fall. Unable to accept the conditions in the present, he buries himself in what little memory he has left of the former world.
Kudos: 2





	The Past? What Past?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first crack at fiction in nearly five years. I had fun with it, but I never planned on it becoming so damn dark. I'll definitely try to write something way more upbeat next time. Probably something lewd. Exo on Exo. Dat good shit. God knows this character needs it.

A thick cloud of dust and sand kicked up into the air as Cyon-1 brought his Sparrow to a halt, dismounting it and landing in the loose sand with his boots, a light crunch being audible between the rubber and billions of tiny rocks. His Ghost did a mandatory sweep of the area, though it was swift and haphazard. They’d been here many times before. This part of the desert provided little for anything wishing to thrive. Thus, like many parts of Earth, was left to be alone with time.

“Area is secure, Guardian,” His Ghost announced after completing his scan, zipping over to Cyon-1 as he sat at the edge of the canyon where he had stopped his Sparrow, “Guardian, I know I’ve spoken about this before, but I really think these visits are proving to be extremely detrimental to your-” His Ghost cut himself off as the Guardian glanced over to his floating counterpart, his faceplates conveying no discernable emotion. His Ghost dropped his gaze. There was a silent, reluctant understanding on the Ghost’s part. Their emotions were not one, but they were somewhat readable to one another. What each side didn’t keep behind a veil was free for the other to see, and the Ghost could clearly see Cyon’s subtle resentment towards him. Cyon-1 turned away from him, peering out at the evening sky, the sun’s last rays for the day glinting in Cyon’s snow-white eyes. He liked to sit in this spot and think. It was far enough away from the Traveler for him to be at peace, though his Ghost was a small reminder.

“Despite how barren it is...you really shouldn’t stray so far out into the wilderness.” 

Cyon-1 ignored the comment and pulled a small journal from the pack attached to his Sparrow, opening it and flipping through the cracking pages. The journal was one of many. Cyon-1 was, before and during the Golden age, diligent with the recording of his day to day life, especially after becoming an Exo. However, the one he held in his hands was the only one to survive the collapse. Inside this particular journal were logs of the daily life of his past, preteen and human self, before the name Traveler ever escaped the lips of any person. An old record of the distant past only known by him. Not even his Ghost knew the contents. It was one of, if not the only thing that could bring any sort of joy into his life anymore. Though he could not recall anything written within it, he still found comfort in reading and calling the memories his own.

Crack…

Crack…

Crack…

A rough chuckle escaped him as he pondered at how small the problems written into the old pages were in comparison to his life now. Oh, what he’d give for such mundane concerns again. There were some more sentimental items as well, small cutout pictures of friends and family, two bloody fingerprints that belonged to a friend and him, a blood pact, swearing to each other’s loyalty for as long as they lived. Whoever that friend was, Cyon’s past self seemed to hold them close to his heart. An untapped love interest maybe? Who knew. He wished he did. 

What he’d give to just remember. 

He slowly dimmed his eyes as he went deep into thought, trying to recall even a sliver of anything written on those old pages, to feel the warmth of a memory that radiated from his logs. The mental hand of his inorganic self reached out into the void of his mind. It grasped and clawed its way through the endless nothingness. There had to be something beyond the blackness he was all too familiar with. A light, a flicker, something to send the darkness fleeing, never to be around to curse his faltering mind anymore.

The only thing his hand felt was the degrading memories of his current self.

Cyon’s eyes lit back up. His efforts were met with darkness yet again, and the brisk breeze somehow made him feel even emptier inside than before. His regret for agreeing to become an Exo weighed heavily on his faulty mind. It was a struggle for him to remember many things after his first reboot, which came shortly before the collapse. His subsequent death and resurrection during and after the fall of humanity didn’t seem to change that. Now he spent his days protecting the Lightless. He scavenged and hunted for whatever he could get his hands on, occasionally helping hold off any raids by the dozens of warlords trying to do the same. At first, protecting the Lightless seemed like the right thing to do, but as he passed by them, day by day, packs of cold, bony and dirty bodies huddled around the dying bonfires sprinkled around their camp, covered in whatever rags they could cloak themselves with, hungry children tugging on his pant leg as he walked, asking when the next hunt would be as their parents watched from their tents with the same sunken and dead eyes everyone seemed to be plagued with, he wondered, was it? What was the point of prolonging suffering if there was no hope for a better future? It had been years since his resurrection, and still, things remained the exact same. 

Those gifted with the Light only seemed to be dragging the rotting remains of humanity along an endless path of pain and destruction.

He’d witnessed so many friends perish on the hell they all called Earth. He had a habit of befriending the Lightless that fought alongside those meant to protect them. Their personalities were genuine. They didn’t have the luxury of coming back after they died. Every day was more than likely their last, and there was no time nor reason to throw up a heroic mask for all to see. They weren’t slaves to a cause brought upon them by their Ghosts. They didn’t protect those because they were obligated to, they did it because they truly cared. If he ever found anything worthwhile to log now, it was about them.

For reasons unknown to him, their deaths would always be one of the last memories his mind decided to corrode. The lucky ones were the ones who left this world with a hole in their head. Blown off limbs, debowlment, pincushion, also known as being shot to death with arrows. The worst were ones who fell victim to those Light-gifted warlords who took pleasure in getting creative with how they got rid of their enemies, using their Light as a tool of torture before finishing them off. He tried not to think about it.

More of each day was becoming a black blotch in his memory. The stress his mind constantly undertook only made that dark pool bigger. He struggled to remember schedules, guard rotations and patrols. Without his Ghost constantly reminding him of his duties, he...he didn’t know what he’d do. There was only so much a person could write down to remember before they became too unreliable to be of any worth. He never admitted that fact out loud, though.

While other Light-bearers cast their Light with pride, Cyon-1 was rarely seen using anything but an old hand cannon he managed to get his hands on. He found it shortly after his resurrection, and its better days were long behind it. The once shiny plating was now scratched and rusted. The hammer wobbled some if he shook the gun and it made a distinctive clinking noise whenever the hammer was pulled back and vice versa. Because of this he always kept it pulled back, just in case there was something he needed to kill that didn’t need to know he was there. The gun never left his person, and it was always tucked into a holster he wore at his side. Cyon-1 knew how to use it, and he used it well. Though it wasn’t on par with a Light user’s abilities, it was enough.

His gaze met the horizon once again, the sun now tucked neatly below it as the sky darkened, white glinting dots littering the blackening sky.

He enjoyed being able to look up into the sky and not see the...Traveler...obscure it. Even saying the name in his head left a sour taste in his mouth. He remembered when he used to worship it like a god. How couldn’t he? The powers and knowledge it offered were unlike anything man had seen before, and peace and prosperity that followed its arrival...it was marvelous. It truly was the greatest tragedy that had ever been inflicted on mankind. The thing that blessed it with the infamous “Golden Age”, but also brought its complete extinction to their doorstep. Yes, the Traveler saved humanity from the problem it brought upon the world, but how much did that really matter now? The world was in complete ruin, everything humanity had accomplished was gone, and the very thing that was supposed to protect people was being used to whip them in line. The Light, the Traveler, all of it was one big giant joke, and-

His Ghost spoke up, “Guardian, your journal...”

Cyon-1 more or less blinked out of his thoughts and peered down at his journal, the old leather cover creasing and bending as he grasped it with an iron fist. He slowly released his hold, the rotted pages falling out in small pieces from between the leather, many being caught by the wind and sent flying out into the canyon. 

He nearly sent himself tumbling down to the riverbank as he reached forward to recover the crumbled pieces, letting out one short distorted cry. His Ghost barely managed to help him regain his balance, quickly zipping around him and pushing against his chest, “Guardian!” Cyon-1 fell back from the push but quickly scrambled back up to his feet.

“Guardian, they’re gone! Stop!”

Cyon-1 stood in somber silence, watching the bits of paper float gracefully down into the roaring river thousands of feet below. The last remnants of his original life, cast away to never be seen or remembered again. Left to perish like everything else on Earth. Even if he tried to rewrite all the things he could recall within the journal...hell...he couldn’t even trust himself to remember what he had for breakfast this morning. He slowly slumped to the floor, falling down onto his knees in disarray. 

He spoke after a long, deafening silence, “...Ghost…?” His rough voice held the weight of a thousand moons.

“Yes?”

“Was it worth it? Humanity went through its most glorious years just for it to all end with the near annihilation of our existence. I was there...for...all of it…. I watched it start...and I ended with it…” He drooped his head and hit the palm of his hand against his forehead, “And I can’t remember any of it…” He lifted his head back up and lowered his hand, “Now I live and suffer with those still left.”

“...Guardian, I…” The two sat in silence.

Cyon-1 opened his journal back up which had fallen at his side. A book once filled with his own memories and yet they weren’t his own. Only a few pages remained intact.

“I can’t go on...this stupid journal,” He grimaced as he looked at the barren book, “This is all I had left of me. This...was me. Everything I was, everything I am...was in this book…”

He shut it, “I have no future to live for. No past to remember,” He turned to his Ghost, “Who the hell am I?”

“You’re the protector of the people, Guardian. If you just-”

“Wield your Light you’ll forge a path for all,” He shook his head, “I’ve heard you say that more times than I can remember, and I try to convince myself it isn’t complete crap in hopes I’ll finally believe in something. Look at the people who are left, Ghost. Do they deserve to suffer?”

“Of course not.”

“Well they are, and it’s because of this,” He held his hand out, a surge of raw energy pulsating and rippling the air around his hand as the air surrounding it rapidly heated up. Embers and flames flickered from his palm, not rising and dissipating but instead wrapping around one another, the hot gas slowly taking the form of a revolver handle. The flames intensified, lighting up the surrounding area with a flash of dancing oranges as they forged the rest of the weapon in Cyon’s hand. Soon sat in his hand a flaming hand cannon, forged in fire, and made by the Light. Cyon-1 wrapped his hand around the butt of the gun, looking down and observing it. Its intense flames could be heard licking at the air, though in Cyon’s hand it felt cold as steel, “Humanity only prospered for so long because we all had access to the power the Traveler had to offer. When everyone’s perfect, what’s there to fight over?” He turned the flaming gun over in his hand, “Of course, we couldn’t be the only ones out in the universe, and they came for that power,” He pulled back the hammer with his thumb, “Power brings conflict, and conflict brings suffering. Now we fight amongst each other. Light against Light, struggling for power over one another. Those who suffer...are the ones we say we’re ‘protecting’. Who are we kidding? You don’t keep a person who has lost all their limbs alive. You put them out of their misery,” He aimed the gun at no specific location, “The Light...it was a mistake to grant this power to us.”

Cyon-1 imitated a deep inhale, his eyes wandering to no specific location before releasing a static-filled exhale, “The Traveler should’ve just let us all perish if he knew what was best for us,” He raised his arm that held the flaming gun and threw it down into the canyon, watching its vibrant, orange light illuminate the smooth sides of the canyon as the weapon fell and quickly dissipated.

“Enough, Cyon.” His Ghost broke the monologue as he floated into Cyon’s view. Cyon’s darted his eyes over to his Ghost. He wasn’t used to his Ghost calling him by his proper name.

“Maybe there’s truth to everything you just said. Maybe the Traveler choosing to bless humanity was a mistake. Maybe...maybe this is humanity’s final stretch,” His Ghost sounded worn. He too had to witness the horrors Cyon cast his eyes on. Despite being constructed by the Traveler, his thoughts were constantly soiled with doubt of his purpose and effectiveness, sometimes wondering if his existence was in vain. However, he was much more stubborn and optimistic than the person he wanted to call friend, “Yet...humanity stands, beaten, bloodied, fighting amongst one another, but there are still people willing to band together and survive, Lightless or not. Their lives may be horrible, but their will to live holds. They haven’t given up,” His Ghost turned to look over the canyon, its depths and features now being illuminated by the bright, full moon that had taken the sun’s place, “I can see your sorrow. I always do. I know how the pain of not being able to remember tears you apart. All you can remember is now, and the now...is what it is.”

“It is what it is because of the Traveler.”

His Ghost quickly spun back around, “Cyon, you can’t keep romanticizing the past. Your journal was only a fraction of the reality of the world you lived in. You can lie to yourself all you want and create the perfect world you wish you lived in inside your head, but you have no idea what this world was like before the Traveler arrived. And this world, right now, the one you hate so much, it needs you more than ever.”

Cyon tightened his jaw, “If that fucking ball in the sky was never here we’d all be better off.”

“You don’t know that. Neither do I. Grow up Cyon. You’re living in a sea of lies, a sea of memories you can’t even remember. You think they help you but...you’re going to drown, and you know people are counting on you. There are people out there who want to see a brighter future, one where there’s no more suffering, and you have the gift to help make that happen. You can’t give up. You can never give up…”

Cyon turned away from him. He wished he could shut him out, shut out everything that wasn’t the warmth of his logs. He might’ve made lies out of them, but those lies were better than anything the reality he lived in now had to offer. The pages were gone but he wanted to sit here and think about everything he could possibly remember of them until those memories too joined the blackness. More than anything he wanted to put a bullet in his Ghost and hurl himself off this canyon like he had envisioned so many times before and finally be over and done with it. He gripped the butt of his hand cannon tucked in his holster, squeezing it tight, nearly crushing it under his grip. There was a long pause before he made his next move. The anger, the sadness, the pain, it all balled together to create one giant hole in his chest. He didn’t want to feel that emptiness he’d experienced all his resurrected life. No more.

He let out a labored breath, it was filled with pops and static, “Yes, I can.”

Cyon unholstered his hand cannon and whipped his head around to face his Ghost, aiming the weapon at him. He didn’t even have to fully extend his arm, just aim up and fire. A single tear glistened on his faceplate in the moonlight.

“Cyon-”

He squeezed the trigger with a moment’s hesitation.

Clink

The hammer made its signature noise as it snapped forward.

Clink...Clink...Clink...

The moment seemed to pause in Cyon’s mind. That distinctive “clink” echoing and ringing in his head. He didn’t know what to expect once he pulled the trigger. An explosion of Light? A wormhole? He thought that maybe the Ghost’s and his lives’ were intertwined to the point where once his Ghost passed, he would too. It definitely would’ve saved him a lot of trouble. Maybe he was...finally at peace. He’d done it. His suffering was over. He didn’t have to live in lies any longer. The darkness could finally take him too.

Clink...Clink...Clink...

An explosion echoed across the canyon as the moment unpaused. The hand that held his gun was blown off in another direction, nearly sending him tumbling down the canyon once again as he waved his arms to keep his balance. He yelled in utter shock and pain, managing to land on his hands and knees. From there he could get a full view of his ruined right hand. His index finger and thumb were completely gone. Small bits of shrapnel was lodged in his palm, and sparks flew from areas where the shrapnel had made a clean exit. Wires and bits of warped metal stuck out from where the shrapnel had left his palm. He grabbed what was left of his mangled hand, letting out an agonizing cry as he moved to a criss-cross sit.

What was left of his hand cannon lay a few feet from him, the barrel and butt nearly ripped apart from the explosion. An explosive “Kaboom”, his shaken Ghost thought to himself as he turned his gaze back to the hunched over Guardian. His Ghost, somehow, was completely unscathed, physically at the very least. His Guardian...just tried to…

No. He couldn’t start scolding him.

His Guardian was already at rock bottom. What good would it do?

His Ghost took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking, “Cyon.”

Cyon refused to look up at him. The guilt was only making the hole bigger.

“Your hand, Cyon. Let me see it.”

Cyon winced and kept his stare at his hand.

His Ghost flew over in front of his face. Cyon’s piercing white eyes slowly dragged themselves to look.

They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. His Ghost could feel the immense regret within Cyon and Cyon could feel the pained understanding within his Ghost. Despite being together for so many years, even after everything they’d been through, this was the closest they had ever let themselves get. Their emotions looked at one another like cautious, but curious animals. They circled around one another, observing their every move, unsure what secrets the other held within. The circling became tighter and tighter until their frightened emotions could finally reach out and touch. A sea of their emotions flooded into one another’s minds’. They danced and mingled with one another, finally gaining an understanding of each other they’d never known before. No longer were they mere spectators of one another. Cyon could feel his Ghost’s wants and needs. They weren’t selfish as he had always envisioned, nor were they some programmed duty. He, like Cyon, genuinely wished to see a better world, but also a world where he could stand proud alongside his Guardian. His Guardian was no tool for the greater good. His Guardian was a person, like everyone else, and like the rest of humanity, deserved a better life than this.

The veil of misunderstanding was up, and for a change, the reality was sweet.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me-”

His Ghost cut him off again, “You never asked, you stubborn ass. How was I supposed to know?”

Cyon couldn’t really smile, but if he could, he would’ve definitely broken just a tiny one at that.

Another tear rolled down Cyon’s faceplate and hit the sand with a small plip as he finally accepted his Ghost, and with it, the Light. Maybe it was a Guardian’s purpose to protect the people, but to Cyon, he was going to help rebuild the world he dreamed about. If it meant that other children could experience the joy he once did, he would fight to the death for it. His Ghost was right. They hadn’t given up, and he was foolish to give up on them, on himself. They were suffering...and maybe they’d suffer for years on end...but...maybe there was a chance of something better. Maybe he’d fail at rebuilding, but he’d try at the very least.

His Ghost dropped his gaze, casting a cone-shaped projection of soft white light from his eye to the injured hand. The warm light slowly repaired Cyon’s hand, his fingers regenerating back as the shrapnel disintegrated from his palm. The nasty holes in his palm mended and closed up, and soon his hand was back to how it always was. The projection ended, and Cyon looked at his restored hand, moving his fingers around before making a fist.

“Ghost...I-”

“It’s nothing, Cyon. We both know I’ve repaired worse.”

Cyon opened his mouth to reply but no words fell out. He knew what his Ghost was trying to say by staying silent about the elephant in the room. He decided to follow his lead.

The reformed Guardian slowly got up on one knee, scooping up the remnants of his journal before standing up. He flipped through the few pages left, glancing through the hastily written scribbles. He could hear the words beckoning him to delve back into the perfect past, to escape the cold once again. Cyon shut the book, silencing the toxic whispers. 

The string that held him and his past together needed to be cut for good.

The sun would rise before Cyon did anything else. Through the remainder of the night, he stood still, head craned up towards the moon as it made its journey across the sky, and his Ghost stood by his side every second. He gripped the journal tight, and as the familiar rays of the sun crept up over the horizon he looked back at the brown leather cover.

The remnants of Cyon’s journal slowly began to smoke and burn as he called upon the Light’s power. The act felt...horrible, like a grave sin was being committed on his part, but he continued, dimming his eyes as he concentrated his Light to burn what was left of his past self. The leather baked and curled, blackening in the heat as the heat intensified. The rotted paper lit up and near vaporized on the spot. The crackling of the burning journal sounded like screams of protest to Cyon’s noise receptors for him to stop, but be held strong, burning the last memories away with the Light he once despised with a passion. The deed was done in seconds, but to Cyon, it felt like the longest moments of his life.

When it was over, nothing remained. Cyon’s eyes lit back up, tears being secreted from his artificial tear ducts once more but managing to keep his faceplate dry. He peered down at his empty hands, letting out a shaky sigh of relief. Not an ash remained. It was done.

He had never experienced the peace his mind seemed to be currently basking in. His life no longer lay in the past. Instead, it was now a blank canvas just waiting to be painted over.

His Ghost watched in silence as Cyon walked over and mounted his Sparrow. He gripped the handlebars, the Sparrow whirring to life as he started it up. Cyon looked over at his companion and nodded. He was shaken, but for the first time in his life, he finally felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time: Hope.

He beckoned for his Ghost to come with a motion back with his head, “ Let’s go back home, L.”

L repositioned himself to what could only be interpreted as a little head tilt for a Ghost, “L?”

“I’m too lazy to start calling you Lucky all the time.”

L gave the comment some thought, “In that case, maybe I should start calling you Asshole, Asshole.”

The two chuckled, and L floated over to Cyon’s side. Cyon still wanted to bring it up. L wasn't interested in chewing Cyon out for nearly killing him, but he'd find other ways to ruffle Cyon's feathers. Regardless, he still found a part of himself forgiving him.

“So...are we good?”

L nodded, “Never been better,” He chirped, “Also why the hell did they build you with tear ducts? Did they know you’d be such a crybaby or something?”

Cyon rolled his eyes and felt a fan kick in from embarrassment, “Come on. I'm being serious.”

“Yes, Cyon. We're good. I'll even kiss your hand the next time you blow your fingers off to prove it.”


End file.
